


lilting, liltlyful, lilts of!

by fruitwhirl



Series: peraltiago tumblr prompts [9]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, prompt, the most meandering thing i've ever written oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 03:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15234738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: Because when November hits, she’ll curl against his side as they’re lying in bed, her arm draped across his torso and her feet slipping in between his, like two little icicles (she claims it warms her up, and when he makes fun of her for it—a swift “Santiago’s don’t wear socks!” at his totally rational suggestion). And a distinctly soft, pleasant feeling will spread throughout his chest, his limbs, at her slotting one of her legs between his and pressing her nose against his shoulder.





	lilting, liltlyful, lilts of!

**Author's Note:**

> this is the MOST meandering thing in the world and it makes no sense but i'm trying to get over writer's block so!! anon asked for "snow" on tumblr
> 
> title from ee cumming's "snow"

If Amy could get rid of a season altogether, she’d say “winter” without missing a beat.

At one point, she loved it—she loved the falling temperatures that brought on wool sweaters and warm drinks and her entire family being under one roof for the holidays. As a child, she’d relish her time in the city during these months, would gleefully stick out her tongue in hopes that a solitary snowflake would land on it. Her brothers would somehow scrounge together scrappy little snowballs, and it would devolve into a full-out brawl, with Amy’s coat ending up slick and a smile stretching across her face wider than one that a perfect score on a spelling test would engender.

But now? Amy cranks the heat in their apartment up higher than it has any right to be (“Really, Ames,  _ eighty degrees? _ ”), and sometimes she even wears two coats over her pantsuits in the mornings on the walk to her  _ car  _ on the street. Her neck is often completely hidden by the mountain of scarves she wraps around it, and every time Charles loudly announces to the entire bullpen, in that weird Caesar Flickerman voice, that “we’ve got  _ flurries  _ today, people!” Amy groans loudly and grumbles about stealing Gina’s space heater. 

Jake knows this, and yet winter is the one season he’d truly miss if he had to move to a season-less place like  _ San Diego  _ (he shudders just thinking about it).

Because when November hits, she’ll curl against his side as they’re lying in bed, her arm draped across his torso and her feet slipping in between his, like two little icicles (she claims it warms her up, and when he makes fun of her for it—a swift “Santiago’s don’t wear socks!” at his totally  _ rational  _ suggestion). And a distinctly soft, pleasant feeling will spread throughout his chest, his limbs, at her slotting one of her legs between his and pressing her nose against his shoulder. 

Because when December hits, and they’re out on a stakeout at half-past midnight and they made the  _ horrible  _ mistake of taking his crappy old car with no heater, she’ll get her knees pulled up in the passenger seat beside him, with the wool blanket he keeps in the back draped around her shoulders. They’ll talk amiably, quiet, even as her breath clouds in front of her and their eyes remain trained on their surroundings. She’ll scrunch her eyebrows together when he reaches again into the floorboard behind his seat, only to quirk the corners of her lips up when he surfaces with a steel canteen of hot chocolate (“No pierogis, but I think we can manage”). 

Because when January hits, he won’t help but think about how dopey they must look, her hand clutching at his upper arm while they fucking  _ stroll  _ down the street in the early morning. If he glances over, he’ll see her smiling broadly, her nose a furious red as a light dusting of snow leaves little flakes in her hair, and he doesn’t think there’s anything more ethereal than a flushed Amy Santiago, framed by frost. 

Because when February hits, and they’re waiting outside of Shaw’s for their Uber because they are  _ far  _ too intoxicated to even consider walking more than a block or two as ice slicks the sidewalk like a skating rink (and hell, Jake can’t skate  _ sober,  _ much less after more vodka than he wants to remember). It’s then that one of his palms will be against her back, fingers spread wide so that she can feel the heat of him even through the layers of both her dress and the hoodie he shrugged off at some point and insisted she wear. She’ll lean into his touch, glance up at him with her pupils blown wide, her cheeks pink and frostbitten, and stand on her tiptoes to press a languid kiss against his lips. He’ll respond in kind, and when she pulls away, he’ll peck her on her Rudolph nose, and she’ll roll her eyes, shake her head. 

But he thinks she grows to like winter, or at least not  _ hate  _ it, because it’s early in their shared day off, when the sun just pokes in pink through their blinds, making the snow on their windowsill glow faintly, and Jake blinks awake to her cheek against his chest, and dark tuffs of her hair tickling his nose. But as he glances down, he sees that her eyelids aren’t fully closed with a small grin spread across her face. Lazily, she draws light, slow circles on the skin of his hip, where his undershirt has ridden up. She doesn’t even notice that he’s awake.

“Ames?” 

He watches as she starts, just a little, then simply hums in response. 

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“You’re just so warm,” she says, her voice soft, lilting, as she loosely wraps her arm around his waist. But he feels like there’s something else to it, feels a quiet buzz in the air, so he presses on, asks her what else is going on in that head of hers.

She pauses for just a moment, bites her lip. “Did I tell you about this test I took yesterday?” When he shakes his head, wonders aloud if it was something that sergeants have to do—he knows that she’s been wanting to retake that forensics certification she and Holt had (hilariously) failed last year—she says no, props her chin up on his collarbone. “Well, I just want to let you know that I didn’t… pass—yeah, I guess that’d be the word.”

He feels himself frown, feels his eyebrows furrow involuntarily. “Amy Santiago-Peralta not passing a test and not freaking out about it? What have you done with my wife?” 

Jake tried for a lighter tone then, but she takes a deep breath and, sensing her apprehension, he snakes an arm around her back, presses his lips to her hairline. 

“It was a pregnancy test.”

They’ve talked about having kids of course, but aside from wanting to wait until she’d been a sergeant for a full year (there’s a whole calendar with dates for lieutenant’s exams and captain’s exams and different training courses she can take), they haven’t  _ really  _ talked about it. 

But a part of him almost wishes that this was another test she had passed with flying colors.

“I know we wanted to wait, but I was late, and I was kind of hoping—”

“How much ‘studying’ would it take to, uh, not fail?” 

And that makes her laugh, a tinkling sort of sound.  “I think I can pull together a ‘study’ plan pretty quickly.”

He can’t help but grin. “I’ve never wanted to pass a test more, including that time when I failed that drug test because that lawyer wanted to sabotage me.” She rolls her eyes at that, but her smile never falls.

(And they’ll talk about it more, after they drift back to sleep, when they’re curled up on the couch, catching reruns of  _ FRIENDS  _ and eating takeout and Amy’s talking about this binder rivalling the sex binder, and it takes everything in him for Jake to not suggest that they start studying early—you know, to be  _ really  _ prepared—because he knows she’ll just shake her head and say that their doily-covered couch is probably not a very conducive learning environment.)

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed at all, hit me up at dmigod on tumblr


End file.
